Fate Misnamed
by Akozu Heiwa
Summary: "There is no such thing as an accident; it is fate misnamed." - Napoleon Bonaparte; In testing an experimental teludav, Alfor accidentally wormholes himself ten thousand years into the future - and right into the hands of the Galra Empire. A fic in which everything is different and yet nothing has changed at all.
1. Chapter 1

As a general rule, Alfor liked to test his new inventions as soon as possible. That had, admittedly, caused a number of problems in his life, but he still held to the idea that the sooner he found the bugs, the sooner he could fix them.

That was why he was going out to test his new (and hopefully improved) teludav model against both Coran and Fala's advice. If it worked it would, first of all, be something he could maybe install in the Lions, and, second of all, make travel a lot easier in general. Only the largest ships had teludavs, after all. Something that could be fitted to a small pod like this would be incredibly useful.

"Alfor, this isn't the same as one of you little, generally harmless normal inventions," said Fala worriedly. "What if this blows up your pod or something?"

"Relax, my love!" he said brightly. "It won't blow up the ship. I'll be back in time for dinner."

"Alfor, I really don't think you should risk this," said Coran. "Let me run the numbers again. Give it a movement and look again."

Alfor was already climbing into the cockpit of the pod.

"It's going to be fine," said Alfor. That didn't make them look any less worried. Alfor leaned out to kiss his wife's cheek, then Allura's forehead. "Be good for your mother, little one, I'll be back very soon."

Allura giggled and waved to him as he sat down and closed the cockpit. Coran was still scowling at him, and Fala held tighter to Allura as they both backed away from the pod.

Alfor powered up the pod and took off. He waited until he was a bit away from Altea to power up the teludav, just in case it did somehow backfire horribly (which he didn't think it would, but he couldn't be too careful).

"Alright," he said to himself. "Let's just use the coordinates for the other side of Daibazaal. Far enough to test this, not too far to get home if everything powers down."

And he was talking himself. He'd gotten used to chatting with the Lions as he worked on them; they were strange and sentient and wonderful in their own way. This pod was not, and it could not speak to him, but that didn't mean he wouldn't end up speaking to _it_.

He readied the teludav and focused power into it. He was decent at teludav travel; as one of the lucky Alteans who had the magic (though he would argue fervently against such a word, it was merely quintessence, merely science) to power the teludav, he'd had lessons from a young age.

The wormhole appeared before him. He grinned. At least that much worked.

He piloted the pod into the wormhole. It felt – more unstable than usual, which wasn't a good sign, but it could have been worse. Alfor kept an eye on the pod's power as he travelled through. Losing power in the middle of a wormhole would be very bad.

The constellations were familiar as he exited the wormhole. His coordinates read the other side of Daibazaal, where he meant to end up, but his power was already starting to sputter and die. Alfor sighed and glanced back at the Galran home-world.

He froze.

"By the Ancients," he whispered.

Daibazaal – or, what _had_ been Daibazaal – was utterly decimated. It was certainly still the planet, but a chunk had been blown apart at the centre, leaving the whole thing looking like an empty, broken shell.

This was not recent.

He should have heard about this.

Why hadn't he heard about this?

The pod was almost completely powered down; he still had oxygen control, and some communications, but no way to fly. Alfor numbly turned on his distress beacon, unable to turn away from the ruins of Daibazaal.

What had happened? Why wouldn't Zarkon notify him?

Unless–

No. That was a bad thought process to follow. Surely Zarkon and Honerva were fine.

With shaking hands he typed in the hailing address of the Castle. When nobody answered, he furrowed his brow and tried again. Then again.

"Coran, Fala, this isn't like you," he murmured to himself, trying once more. Once again, no response.

He gave up on that and instead tried calling Blaytz. This, too, received no response the first three times he tried, and he moved on to Trigel after that. When this failed too, he tried Gyrgan, only to be met with more failure.

"Okay," he said aloud. "So. Maybe communications are not working, after all. That is alright. Someone will pick up my distress beacon soon. Probably Coran. I expect he is on high alert right now."

So he waited and tried to ignore the destroyed Daibazaal behind him. It was no longer than a couple of vargas before anyone showed up, and his pod _still_ hadn't powered back up. To his surprise and relief, it seemed to be a Galran vessel. It activated a tractor beam to pull him inside.

He exited his pod and turned around to see soldiers staring at him. He blinked and waved awkwardly. A tall, glowering Galran pushed his way through the soldiers. He looked mildly surprised.

"An Altean," he said.

"Yes," said Alfor. "An Altean. That's me."

The Galran stalked forward and narrowed his eyes, before a sinister-looking smile crossed his features. "Oh, Emperor Zarkon will want to see you."

Zarkon. That was good. That meant Zarkon was alive, okay. Alfor was about to respond, but the Galran wasn't done.

"Knock him out," he said, and Alfor stiffened in alarm. "We don't want the little Altean to fight."

"Wait-" Alfor started to say – too late. Something hard made contact with the back of his head, and the world went dark.

 **A/N: Hey guys! I know, I know, I shouldn't have started a new fic. I wasn't even going to post it here, but I decided I might as well. This idea just won't leave me alone.**

 **So some background info for this fic and AU:**  
 **Alfor is about twenty-seven years/deca-phoebs** **old. Yes, I made a little timeline of his life for my other story. So for this,** **he has built Voltron, but they haven't fought the creatures yet. Allura is like three when he pulls this stunt. After Alfor's** **disappearance, he is eventually declared dead and Fala reigns until Allura is old enough. She ends up taking his place as the Red Paladin, and the whole downhill slope thing still happens. Daibazaal and Altea are both destroyed, Coran and Allura are sealed in cryopods** **Ten thousand years later, guess who pops up and gets taken prisoner by the Galra?**

 **Anyway, yeah. After thinking of the fic, I kinda just had to write it. So it is here! I hope you guys enjoyed, and I will go work on Light Years from Home now. XDD Updates will be just as sporadic here as with my others. Love you all!**


	2. Chapter 2

When Alfor came to, he was in a cell. It took him a moment to recall what had happened, and when he did, he shot to his feet, grabbing at the bars.

"Hey!" he yelled. "I'm friends with Zarkon – I mean no harm! Hey!"

No one responded to him.

It would be fine. Zarkon would show up and free him eventually, and then he would explain what happened to Daibazaal, and then Alfor could go home and apologise to his wife and Coran for not listening to them. Then they would figure out how to help any refugees from Daibazaal. Alfor would not abandon his friend when he needed him – he wished Zarkon had contacted him as soon as it had happened.

As if on cue, footsteps echoed down the corridor. To his relief, Zarkon soon stood before him. Alfor couldn't read his expression, but he suspected his friend was pretty stressed. However, shock settled very quickly into his friend's features.

"Alfor?" he asked. Alfor was kind of surprised that he'd been able to alarm his friend – usually the Galran emperor was completely collected.

"Um, hello, Zarkon," he said. "It is good to see you. Would you mind letting me out of this cell?"

"You're alive," said Zarkon instead.

"Yes," said Alfor in confusion. "Of course I am. Zarkon, what's going on? What happened to Daibazaal?"

Zarkon's face darkened. Alfor finally started to realise something was off about his friend. His eyes were yellow, right? So why were they glowing purple…?

"Your _wife_ destroyed it," said Zarkon coldly.

That's didn't sound right. That didn't sound like Fala at all.

"Why would Fala attack Daibazaal?" asked Alfor in shock. "I – I must – how _long_ has it been?"

Normally he wouldn't have even considered time travel, but the more pieces that settled into place, the more the puzzle began to look like it had certainly been more than a varga or so since he left home. Zarkon didn't have that scar, did he? He looked older, too.

Zarkon didn't answer, still scowling at him. Alfor shook his head. "I must get back to Altea. I will talk to Fala – I – I don't fully understand what's going on, but in order to understand it I must get back."

"No," said Zarkon.

" _No_?" repeated Alfor.

"I destroyed Altea, ten thousand years ago," said Zarkon. Alfor's blood ran cold. No. That couldn't be right. "It was only fair. You are the last Altean left."

"No," Alfor said aloud. "No, no – tell me you're lying. You're lying."

"Take him to Haggar," said Zarkon to the Galran with him. "Let her have her fun. When she is content, dispose of him. And bring me his head, so we're sure. He has an annoying habit of not dying when he's supposed to."

Zarkon started to walk away. Alfor grabbed the bars desperately. "Zarkon – _Zarkon_ , please! It's not true!"

He did not stop. Alfor sank to the ground and wrapped his arms around his knees, the sharp sting of betrayal only overshadowed by the dark cloud of loss. Zarkon was not joking or lying, as far as he could tell. This was – this was all his fault. If he hadn't tested the stupid teludav, he could have found a way to prevent this. Instead, here he was, at some point in time in the future, his planet destroyed and his race virtually extinct.

Fala – Coran – Allura – all of his friends and family – his people – all gone. His chest hurt – not from any physical injury, but from the loss and grief he never expected to feel. After all, who would expect to be the last of their kind? It wasn't fair, it wasn't right – it felt like his worst nightmare, except somehow even more terrible.

"Get up, Altean," grunted the Galran. Alfor hadn't even realised he was still there. "You'll _enjoy_ your time with the witch. Get up."

Alfor did not want to. He didn't want to do anything.

"No," he mumbled. "Just kill me. There's no point in keeping me alive."

The Galran leered at him. "Not yet, Altean. The witch likes her playthings."

The bars opened. Alfor did not look up. The Galran lifted him by his collar, but Alfor couldn't bring himself to care, even as he was bodily lifted and dragged away. He didn't know who or what this Haggar, this witch, was, or what she wanted with him. Zarkon seemed pretty intent on eliminating every Altean, which meant he wanted Alfor dead, so Alfor didn't know why he didn't just kill him and be done with it.

Alfor would almost rather he did.

Just a few vargas ago, he had been at home. He had had breakfast with his family – his beautiful wife, his fantastic best friend and advisor, his wonderful, perfect daughter. Now they were all gone. Even if he couldn't have prevented this, he should have at least been with them. Now he was alone, imprisoned and betrayed by a man he had called his friend.

But as he thought of them, his grief was slowly replaced by anger. His family hadn't deserved to die. His people hadn't deserved to die. He couldn't die yet – not before finding a way to avenge them.

He was thrown into a room. Alfor pushed himself off the floor as a figure in a long robe came to loom over him.

"So," said the figure, "it is true. The last Altean is the lost King Alfor."

Alfor hadn't even thought about that. How long had his family been without him before they – they died? Had they mourned him?

He shook himself out of his thoughts, pushing them far back in his mind. "So you must be Haggar, then."

"Indeed," she said. "Get up."

Alfor blinked at her. "No."

She could kill him. He didn't care. He had no reason to listen to her.

"Insolent," she scoffed. "It was to be expected."

She lifted a hand, and suddenly dark energy surrounded him and lifted him up. He found himself struggling against the energy, to no avail.

"What is this?" he demanded.

"I believe you will make as fine a warrior as our current Champion," she purred. "I look forward to seeing what you can do, Altean. Hmm… I expected all the fight to have drained from you once you learned the fate of your people."

If he was honest, she was right. The fight had drained from him.

But not anymore.

"Release me," he demanded.

She laughed. "Oh, little Altean, I can't do that."

"You may have destroyed Altea, but our allies will rescue me," he said, which was a bit of a bluff. Blaytz would probably rescue him, if he knew. The problem was everyone probably thought he was dead.

"Altea has no more allies," said Haggar. "Zarkon destroyed the entire system and everyone in it."

Alfor's heart sunk, but he forced down the newest grief. He could mourn later.

He wasn't sure what the strange magic was. The Galran had called her a witch, but Alfor thought magic foolish and unrealistic. There was always a scientific explanation, even if he didn't necessarily know it. There had to be a way to break free.

He struggled more forcefully. Perhaps he could tire Haggar out. Perhaps she would lose concentration. Perhaps–

Pain.

It came very suddenly, and he hadn't been expecting it, so it tore a cry of pain from him. It was short, but it left him weak and trembling and still trapped by her strange magic.

"What…?" he managed to ask.

"Take that as a warning, Altean," she said coolly, leaning close to him and narrowing her eyes. It was the first good glimpse he got of her face; she most certainly wasn't full Galra. Her features were almost Altean, but not quite. Alfor doubted it anyway – with the way Zarkon was talking, he would never work with an Altean. He wondered again what happened to his friend – the man that he trusted and who trusted him in turn, the one who had saved him so many times, the kind, gentle leader Alfor knew was gone, replaced by a monster. "Stop struggling, or the punishment will be worse next time."

Then she turned away and walked briskly to the other side of the room.

"Put him with the Champion," she said.

The energy holding Alfor disappeared and he dropped to the ground. He thought briefly about trying to fight, but he was grabbed before he could. He was dragged out of the room again, but this time he struggled against his captor. The man growled and slammed him hard against the wall. He blinked darkness out of his vision.

"Knock it off," the man said.

Alfor did. He couldn't break away right now. He'd have to find another way, later.

He was thrown roughly into another cell. He forced himself into a sitting position, feeling the back of his head for what he knew would be a nasty bruise later.

To his surprise, a stranger knelt by him. Alfor didn't know his species. He looked similar to an Altean, but with rounded ears and strange eyes. His hair was dark and his face was kind. He said something Alfor didn't understand.

Alfor shook his head. "I'm sorry, I don't speak your language."

The man looked vaguely disappointed.

"Do you know Galran?" asked Alfor, switching to his very limited Galran. He wasn't exactly pleased to use the language of his newfound captors, but he did want to communicate with his fellow prisoner.

Recognition flared in the man's eyes. When he spoke next, it was in halting Galran. "Little. I am some new here."

Alfor nodded. "I have – _had_ Galran friends. I learned some of the language for them."

"I am Shiro," said the man, offering him a smile.

"I'm Alfor," he said in response.

"What is friends?" said Shiro. It took Alfor a moment to realise he wasn't asking about the concept but rather the Galran word – after all, if his only knowledge of Galran came from being imprisoned, he wouldn't know the term.

"People you trust," said Alfor, hoping he knew those words. "People you love."

He put a hand to his heart, then to where he hoped Shiro's was, though he knew nothing of his new friend's species. He smiled, because that facial expression seemed to be shared.

"Ah," said Shiro, then said a word in his own language. Alfor assumed the word meant 'friend'.

He repeated the word in Shiro's language, then said in Altean, "Friends."

Shiro nodded and repeated it back in only mildly accented Altean. Alfor was somewhat impressed.

"How were you captured?" he asked.

Shiro frowned and looked away. "My crew and I – we explore a moon near our planet. Galra found us and took us."

"Where is your crew?" Alfor asked hesitantly.

Shiro's frown deepened. He looked somewhat sad. "I don't know."

"Oh," said Alfor. "I'm sorry."

"How were you captured?" asked Shiro.

"I was stupid," said Alfor bitterly. "I – did something stupid, and I was stranded. The Galra found me."

"No crew?" asked Shiro.

Alfor shook his head. "Only me."

"No… friends?" he asked, being careful with the new word, hesitant and worried.

Alfor closed his eyes. "No. They are all dead. My planet is gone."

He did not want to see Shiro's pity, so he did not look. To his surprise, he felt arms wrap around him – tentative, as if unsure of whether it would be a social faux pas, but with the certitude that only came from experience in comforting people. Alfor stiffened in surprise, and Shiro nearly pulled away, but Alfor stopped him and wrapped his own arms around his new friend. He'd always been a tactile person. Near-stranger or not, the hug was a welcome comfort.

"I'm sorry," said Shiro. "The Galra are evil."

Alfor still didn't want to believe it. He still wanted it to be a dream. It was something he would have never even imagined that morning. Still, he furrowed his brow and said, "Yes. They are."

 **A/N: This chapter was interesting to write this chapter. I've found I've written so much pre-Rift Zarkon that writing evil Zarkon was kind of weird for me. Alfor, poor** **guy, has no idea what happened really. Now he's lost everything. Luckily he has Shiro!**

 **I figured Shiro would know at least some Galran, and Alfor** **definitely would. So it's the closest thing to a lingua franca they've got. Now, I'm a linguistics major (and a huge nerd) so I'm actually pretty excited about their situation, because in real life there'd be a good chance that they'd form a pidgin for communication using Galran as the superstrate language, or the lexifier, which is going to give most of the vocabulary. Meanwhile, Altean, English, and possibly Japanese (because** **I headcanon that Shiro is fluent in Japanese) would be the substrate languages that will give a lot of the grammar (morphology, syntax, even phonology) to the pidgin. It's a really, really cool thing to think about, but I'll stop nerding** **out now.**

 **I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Love you all!**


	3. Chapter 3

English was the strangest language Alfor had ever tried to learn, and he had learnt a lot of languages.

Even Shiro admitted it, and offered to teach him the "easier" Earth language he spoke, but Alfor was never one to back down from a challenge. Trying to teach Shiro Altean was interesting, as well, but Alfor was determined to teach him and Shiro was determined to learn.

"After all," Shiro had said, "you deserve to have someone to speak your native language with."

Alfor had been incredibly touched by this. His new friend was a good man.

Learning languages was something of a past-time for the two of them, a way to hide from the horrors of their imprisonment. They still spoke mostly Galran – it wasn't very good Galran, and Alfor knew all the grammar was wrong, but they could understand each other and that was what mattered. Stories were another past-time. Shiro told Alfor all about Earth and his family, and in turn, Alfor spoke of Altea and how wonderful it had been and of his family who were taken from him all too soon.

Meanwhile, Alfor remained the focus of the witch's attentions and Shiro was forced to fight in a horrific gladiator arena. Alfor could see how much fighting and killing hurt his friend. Some part of him was glad he didn't have to do that, too, especially since so far the witch was tame. Well, tame was a relative term. So far, she had mostly asked questions that he refused to answer (typically earning him a round of that strange pain spell she used, but he couldn't bring himself to care) and taken blood samples.

Alfor could handle that. In between all of the horrors, he could learn from and teach Shiro. They could share stories. Most importantly, Alfor could plan their escape, and once they escaped – well, then maybe Alfor could find a way to get back home. He hadn't voiced his thoughts to Shiro; he'd need to eventually plan with him to make their escape go well, but until Alfor had a decent idea of how to escape, he would stay quiet.

"And then – get this," said Shiro, with the easy, conspiratorial smile he always got when he was telling Alfor stories like this. Alfor was impressed that his friend could remain so upbeat, at least when he was around. "Keith walks right up to the boy, says, 'Your face is too pretty!' in the angriest voice I've ever heard, and punches him 'to fix it'."

"I love your brother," Alfor cackled. Shiro laughed as well. "Oh, Ancients, that's wonderful. How old was he?"

"Thirteen," said Shiro. "Now he's – oh, he's got to be almost eighteen by now. I'm not sure how long I've been here. Anyway, if he ever finds out I told you, he might actually kill me. That boy and his knives, I swear."

"He is the one you said snuck knives into his – what did you call it? – _dorm room_ at the Garrison?" Alfor clarified.

Shiro groaned. "Yes. Explaining that to Iverson was… something. I had to swear he'd never do something like that again, and I had to threaten to take all of Keith's knives and bury them to make him agree. He gave me the most pitiful look. Then he started sneaking knives out of the dining hall and sharpening them."

"Well, you should have seen Coran and I at his age," admitted Alfor, absently thinking back to that time. He always thought fondly back to his deca-phoebs as a teenager. "Thirteen? That was about when I started learning how to fly. And learning how to fly meant learning how to sneak out with Coran and go to… unsavoury places, like Unilu Swap Moons. I can't count the number of times we almost got ourselves killed!"

"And this is why humans don't learn how to drive at thirteen," said Shiro in amusement.

"We were a couple of walking disasters waiting to happen," Alfor admitted. His smile fell, and he glanced downward. Thinking about Coran made his heart hurt. Thinking about Altea made his heart hurt. He'd lost everyone.

Shiro seemed to catch onto his mood, and quickly changed the subject. "Have I told you about the time when Matt and I snuck into the teacher's lounge to find out if the rumours about them having a secret stash of alcohol were true?"

Alfor gave his friend a grateful smile. "No. Were they?"

"Matt and I stole some," he admitted, his grin growing wider. "Would you believe it was the first time either of us had ever had alcohol?"

Alfor laughed. "Actually, I very much would believe it."

Shiro rubbed the back of his neck. "Yes, well, as you can imagine–"

The door to the cell opened. Both of them stiffened and turned.

"Altean," grunted the soldier. "Come on. Haggar wants to see you."

All good things had to come to an end. Alfor's shoulder dropped, and he glanced to Shiro and told him in his very best English, "Be careful if you go out today."

"You be careful too," said Shiro in his accented Altean, face sad.

"Come on," grunted one of the guards, yanking Alfor away by the arm. Alfor scowled at him.

The way to the witch was almost familiar by now. Alfor hated that it was. Familiar was supposed to be the bustling, bright corridors of the Castle of Lions, or the twisting, half-submerged halls of Blaytz's palace on Nalquod, or the open, fragrant fields of juniberry flowers, or even the warm, welcoming cockpits of the Lions. Familiar was not supposed to be this prison.

The guards threw him to the floor. The witch scowled down at him.

"Stay," she told the guards. "I want to collect a larger sample today, and I will need your help."

That could not be good.

"Don't worry," she purred to him, jerking his chin up with a hand so he would meet her eyes. "Once I am through, you will be better than you are now."

"Er, no thanks," he said.

Her eyes narrowed, still the same eerily glowing gold, glinting with malice. If Alfor had to put a face to true evil, it would be hers. If he was being completely honest with himself, he wanted her to be the true evil. If she was, maybe it meant she was the reason Zarkon turned. It allowed him to believe there was good somewhere in his friend – maybe this witch was to blame, and maybe she could be defeated, and at least one of Alfor's friends saved.

"Bring him this way," said Haggar sharply.

The guards grabbed him again. This time, Alfor struggled against them. He didn't know what Haggar meant by better, but it couldn't be good. A "larger sample" was definitely not good. He had to get out of here. Maybe if he could, he could get back to Shiro, and together they could escape.

One of the guards hit him hard on the back of the head with 's vision swam, a second later darkness overtook his senses.

* * *

He might have woken up a few times, but what he remembered was blurry voices and pain, so he sort of tries to block it out. When he finally fully came to, he was back in the cell with Shiro. He felt mostly fine, though for some reason his arm was sore.

"You're awake," said Shiro, voice and expression full of relief. Alfor blinked at him, still trying to shake off the fog of unconsciousness.

"What – what happened?" Alfor managed to ask.

"I don't know," admitted Shiro. "How are you feeling?"

"Not too bad," said Alfor. He shifted and tried to sit up, and Shiro helped him into a sitting position. He winced and went to grab his left arm, but his hand grasped at empty air. He frowned and glanced over.

He did not expect what he saw.

He expected some sort of injury. Bruising, maybe a dislocated shoulder or something, even a cut, but that was not what he found.

His arm was _gone_.

Or, at least, most of it was. From just under his shoulder and down, there was nothing. Panic settled in his chest. The witch took his _arm_. He gingerly felt around the bandaged stump; it still hurt any time he put any pressure with his fingers, but otherwise it was painless.

"Breathe, Alfor," said Shiro softly. In the back of his mind, Alfor noted he was speaking Altean – or at least the closest he could. "Breath. Just breathe."

"She – she – it's gone, Shiro, my arm is gone!" Alfor managed in horror.

"I know, Alfor," murmured Shiro. "I know. But you have to calm down."

This was the last thing he would have imagined happening. He didn't know why she'd _cut off his arm_ , but she had. Alfor couldn't really remember it, but if he tried hard enough he did remember the pain, so it certainly hadn't been under anaesthesia of any sort.

"They're monsters," murmured Shiro, back to the rough Galran because he didn't yet know enough Altean. Alfor flinched despite himself and Shiro gave him an apologetic look. He deliberately emphasised his strange accent to differentiate himself from their Galran captors. "They're cruel. Even if you'd lost the arm for a reason – on Earth you'd be recovering in a sanitary hospital, not a cell. I – I should have done something."

"You didn't know this would happen," Alfor said quietly, letting the horror fade to the back of his mind and beginning to prod at the injury again, wincing but trying to figure out the extent of the damage.

Extent of the damage. His arm was _gone_.

"Stop," said Shiro, grabbing his hand – the only one left – and pulling it away. "You're going to irritate it more."

"I'm just examining it," said Alfor, and once he yanked his hand free he started testing his shoulder for any bruising or the like.

"Alfor," said Shiro. "Stop. Just leave it be."

"Help me take off the bandages," Alfor said.

Shiro gave him almost the exact same look Coran would give him when he asked him to do something crazy or mildly illegal (back when Alfor wasn't the king, anyway).

" _No_ ," he said.

Alfor ignored him and started trying to pull the bandages off himself. Shiro grabbed his hand again.

"Alfor, _stop_ ," he said. "You're going to hurt yourself worse."

Alfor met his eyes. Shiro stared at him pleadingly, eyes wide and troubled, lips pulled downward in a deep frown, brows knitted with worry.

"Please, Alfor," he said.

Alfor stopped struggling. Shiro released his hand, and Alfor allowed it to drop to the ground and form into a fist on the cold metal floor.

"How am I supposed to hold Allura when I get back to her?" he murmured.

Shiro's eyes widened and shone almost imperceptibly. Then, he pulled Alfor into a hug. Alfor tried to hug his friend back, his remaining arm curling up and his hand grasping at the rough fabric of Shiro's shirt. Some part of him still felt like his other arm had moved too.

"Oh, Alfor," whispered Shiro sadly.

"I just – I thought when I got back I could pick her up and hug her and promise her it would be okay," Alfor managed. His eyes burned; something wet trailed down his cheeks. It took him a moment to realise they were tears, and he squeezed his eyes shut to try to stop them. "I can't – how am I supposed to do anything without an arm? Escape, build a ship and a teludav to get home – I can't do that without my arm, how am supposed to get back to them?"

Shiro's grip tightened. "It's going to be okay. I'll help you, I promise. I'll make sure we both get out of here, and then I'll help you build your ship and your teludav. I'll get you home. I promise I'll get you home."

Alfor just tried not to sob.

"It's okay to cry," mumbled Shiro.

So Alfor did.

 **A/N: Hi, writing this hurt me a lot.**

 **Okay, so, I spent a lot of time debating on Alfor losing any limbs and if it would be an arm at all, but it looks like Haggar has a thing for taking off arms, so it's an arm. I was fine writing his reaction, amused even when Shiro was having to be all "Please stop Alfor why are you like this" and then it took a turn for the sad. Alfor really, really thinks at this point that he'll be able to get back to Altea 10,000 years ago. This has put a bit of a wrench in his plans.**

 **Don't worry. The Shiro angst? It's coming.**

 **At least the beginning of the chapter was kind of happy? I hope you guys enjoyed! Love you all!**


	4. Chapter 4

Having one arm took some getting used to.

By some strange stroke of luck or mercy, Haggar hadn't come for Alfor for a while, so Alfor had time. Shiro did his best to help, and Alfor was eternally grateful for his new friend. It was a slow process – besides the fact that he was off-balance and kept trying to use the arm that no longer existed, he was in pain the whole time because the witch had hardly followed proper medical procedure. He could only hope the wound wouldn't get infected.

"How are you feeling today?" Shiro greeted him that morning.

"I'm fine, Shiro," he mumbled, absently going to brush his hair out of his face before realising he had to use the other hand.

"I'll help you up," he said.

"I'm just going to fall again," Alfor said mulishly, but he took his friend's hand and allowed him to pull him into a standing position. Even with Shiro steadying him, he felt… off. It made sense, but that didn't make it any more comfortable.

"You've got this," said Shiro reassuringly. "We'll keep working at it until you have no problems. Patience yields focus."

"I feel like that's some slogan that would go on a poster or something," muttered Alfor.

Shiro chuckled. "Keith always said the same, but I like to think it helps."

"Patience yields focus," Alfor repeated softly. Shiro released him, which was fine, he could stand alright. He could even walk around okay, even if he ended up tripping and falling about seventy-five percent of the time, and several of those times he tried to catch himself with his left arm, which, again, did not exist anymore. Shiro was usually there to catch him, which was good because Alfor had hit his head enough times in his youth and didn't need to keep doing it because he couldn't manage to walk without falling on his face.

"How does your wound feel?" asked Shiro, brow furrowed in concern as Alfor, mostly for his friend's sake (because Shiro was insisting that he walk around their cell like this at least once a quintant), carefully paced around the fairly small cell.

"Not any worse," said Alfor. He reached over to prod at the injury but managed to lose his balance and stumble. He regained his footing fairly easily, which was good, but stood still while he felt around the bandages, craning his head to see.

"Don't mess with it too much," said Shiro. He walked over and examined the stump of Alfor's arm as well. "Okay, I don't think I see any new bleeding, so that's good. I wish we had a way to change out the bandages."

"Yes, well, I don't anticipate the Galra offering us clean bandages and medicine any time soon," muttered Alfor.

"When we get back to Earth, one of the first things I'm doing is getting you proper medical care," said Shiro. Alfor glanced away. It was nice, because with Shiro, it was always _when_ and never _if_ , and it was always _we_ and never _I_ , but Alfor, short an arm and barely able to walk straight, was a liability now. It was part of why Alfor agreed with Shiro that he needed to work on his balance and adjusting. The sooner he was fully or mostly adjusted, the better chances they had for escaping. As it was, the only way they were getting out was if Shiro _carried_ him.

"Yourself as well," said Alfor instead of voicing his pessimism. "I'm sure you'll need it."

Shiro waved him off. "I'm not the one who lost an arm."

"Fighting in those arenas can't be very good for your health," muttered Alfor.

Footsteps sounded from a bit away. Shiro tensed and took a step between Alfor and the door to their cage. Alfor might have protested this if he'd had both of his arms, but he didn't stand much of a chance defending himself right now. As it was, they were probably here for Shiro.

"Out of the way," grunted the Galran.

Or not.

"You're not taking Alfor," said Shiro.

The other Galran stalked forward and grabbed Shiro, who struggled fruitlessly against him. Alfor valiantly swung his remaining fist at the other Galra when he came for him, but it was no use; all he managed to do was lose balance as the Galra side-stepped. He fell to the ground and completely forgot to catch himself with the arm that actually existed (why did he always do that?). The Galra hauled him up.

"The witch wants to see you," he said.

The other Galran threw Shiro into the wall. Shiro groaned and rubbed his head, but hopped to his feet and tried to run after them – it was no use, but Alfor appreciated the effort.

"If you hurt him more, you'll regret it!" Shiro yelled after them.

"What more do you want from me?" asked Alfor as the Galrans dragged him struggling through the halls. "Why are you doing this?"

They didn't answer.

Haggar was waiting for them. The sight of the witch sent an unexpected spike of fear through him. He schooled his expression into anger, fighting against his captors.

"Hello again, King Alfor," she said. "I have a gift for you."

"I don't want it," he said.

"You do not have a choice," she said. "Bring him in. I don't want him to struggle too much."

Alfor continued to do the best to fight against the Galra, but they were much stronger than him and had no trouble bringing him in and strapping him to some sort of stood up table.

"Don't worry," she said, lips twisting into a cruel smile. "You will thank me later."

Alfor decided this was the perfect moment to exercise some of his new English vocabulary, courtesy Shiro, and told her very emphatically, "Fuck off."

Her smile fell; evidently, she understood the sentiment, if not the exact words.

She did not speak and instead began unravelling the bandages around what remained of Alfor's left arm. He began struggling in earnest, unsure of what she was doing but certain it wouldn't be good. The restraints tightened.

"Bring it in," the witch said. Alfor tried to struggle against the bonds that held him. The two Galra guards brought Haggar – something. Alfor couldn't tell what it was, and she did not move to clear it up. Alfor craned his head to get a better look, to no avail.

"What are you going to do to me?" he asked.

There was a sharp pain in his remaining arm – as his vision blurred, he realised they must have injected him with some sort of sedative, or maybe a poison. He wasn't sure it mattered which. He tried to hold onto consciousness, if only to spite the witch.

He failed.

* * *

When Alfor came to, he was back in the cell, alone. His first thought was to panic.

"Shiro?" he called. Had they separated them? It wouldn't surprise him – in fact, it was more surprising that they hadn't already. Still, Alfor didn't want to be alone. Shiro kept him grounded from the grief that threatened to drown him – Shiro, with his stories and optimism and smile – Ancients, he hoped they hadn't separated them.

He unsteadily got to his feet and hit the metal door with both hands.

"Shiro!" he called again, before realising what he'd just done.

He stumbled backwards, holding up his left hand in front of his face. Only, it wasn't his left hand, and he knew that, because his left arm was gone – what he saw was Galra tech, metallic and ominous and unnatural. He made to flex his fingers, and the metal ones moved almost just like his flesh ones would have. He twisted the wrist around and stretched the arm.

"What…?" he mumbled. He clenched the fist, released it, then clenched it again. The second time, it began to glow.

Hands were _not_ supposed to glow like that.

"Quiznack!" he yelped, shaking the arm wildly as if to throw it or at least the purple glow off. He stumbled back against the wall, eyes wide. With his other hand, his real hand, he tested the feel of the prosthetic. It was smooth for the most part, with thin grooves at different points. It _looked_ like an arm and a hand; the only difference was that it was metal, grey and black and not quite right. His skin was tender where it connected to his – stump – and, now that he thought about it, that was pretty sore. He couldn't see where it connected, but if he had to bet, he was sure the skin would be red and inflamed.

This could put a damper on their escape, if he thought of it. There could have been a tracker embedded. The fact that he could move it like a real arm meant that it was somehow connected to his brain, and if the connection went both ways, then there could be a function for the Galra to incapacitate him or, worse still, control him. And, of course, who _knew_ what else they could have done while he was out. And the more he thought about it, the more likely it became that they'd done something to make him easy to control because surely they would.

He was still alone. It was possible Shiro had just been taken to the arena. Or worse – if the witch wanted another plaything–

But, no, she had never shown any interest in the human. She wouldn't start now, especially not while she still had Alfor. He could be okay with being something for her to experiment on if it meant his new friend – his only friend in this time – was safe from her.

He tried to find some of Shiro's optimism. The arm weighed about the same as his old one had, surprisingly, which made walking a lot easier. He was smart. He could figure out where the tracker was and disable it if they escaped – _when_ they escaped. At worst, he could just ditch the arm once they got out – throw it into the unforgiving emptiness of space and forget about it. The most concerning was the idea that it could be used to control him – oh, he very much hoped it could not be used to control him.

He was so lost in thought that he barely noticed when the door opened and Shiro was thrown in. At first, Alfor was relieved – they had not been separated. Relief gave way to fear when he noticed the blood on his friend's face.

"Shiro!" he exclaimed. He rushed over and knelt by his friend's side, tugging off the weird cropped over-shirt of his prisoner's outfit and using it to clean away the blood. He winced at the gruesome gash, spreading across his nose from one cheek to the other. Shiro moaned, face screwing up in pain as Alfor cleaned the wound as best he could and applied pressure to stop the bleeding. "What have they done to you?"

Shiro opened his eyes to gaze blearily at Alfor.

"Alfor," he managed. "Your… arm?"

"I think your face is more important, my friend," Alfor said.

Shiro chuckled weakly. "I'm sure I'm still – plenty pretty."

Alfor snorted. That was a very Shiro thing to say.

"Of course you are," he said, because it was _true_ , Shiro was plenty pretty and still would be even when this scarred. "Although the blood does take a bit away from that."

"Guess red's not my colour," said Shiro.

"Guess not," said Alfor. Shiro's sense of humour had taken a bit of getting used to, even if Alfor himself tended to make wry comments when he was injured. Shiro took the dark humour to another level sometimes and always seemed to think he was being quite clever and funny.

"They're breaking the law," mumbled Shiro. Alfor's eyebrows rose. "I work for the government. It's illegal to de _face_ government property."

"I'm going to pretend you didn't make that joke," said Alfor flatly.

Shiro chuckled again, then winced.

"If you want the bleeding to stop, you might want to stop that," Alfor said.

Shiro hummed in agreement.

"We're going to get out of here," Alfor promised. "Somehow, we're going to escape."

"Patience yields focus," murmured Shiro.

Alfor pressed his lips together before nodding. "Patience yields focus."

 **A/N: Hahaha, hey, guys, so about my updating schedule... it doesn't actually exist.**

 **But I'm alive! With a new chapter! And a lot of salt from season seven that has officially dictated how this fic is gonna go in terms of a couple of things, so that's good!**

 **I did a ton of research for this chapter because I have both my arms and I wanted to write this fairly accurately, so I hope it is. Also, look, Shiro whump! I know you guys were waiting for some. Poor guy needs a break. Poor guy needs all the breaks.**

 **Well, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'm super sorry it took so long, and for those of you still reading, I love you so much!**


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